Mage Legend

The vampires, sensing the looming danger, immediately sought cover. They hid their slender forms behind thick tree trunks, daring to move positions only during the intervals between arrow shots.

The poor ghosts still couldn't comprehend what was happening, without "sight," they never understood what kind of weapon hit them. The elves noticed this and aimed these specially crafted sharp arrows at the ghostly creatures, turning the battle into a one-sided situation.

"Mind the number of ammunitions!" the Elf Captain shouted loudly, pinning a vampire to the tree with an ordinary arrow. "Don't waste these things all at once!"

After speaking, two successive ordinary elf arrows were accurately lodged into the vampire's eyes, avoiding its tough skin and skull defenses, stirring whatever was left in its brain into a mess.

At this moment, the tree behind the vampire began to wither, as if time had suddenly skipped to the autumn of all plants' decline, yellow leaves quaking off the branches under the powerful impact of the arrows. Originally assuming it was the vampire's filthy power causing the tree's death, the Elf Captain didn't expect the sturdy tree he relied on also gradually aged.

He looked around to see many plants also turned into this state, and the grass beneath his feet seemed to be instantly deprived of nutrients, turning yellow and fragile. The forest behind the Undead army lost its lush vitality, suddenly shrouded by a dark breath of death. The elves' proud extraordinary vision couldn't perceive what was happening there.

The captain felt like his neck was suddenly clenched, and both eyelids were harshly tugged by fishhooks. What was happening on the other side of the forest seemed like the assembly of all the nightmares in his lifetime, gripping his heart tightly. He desperately tried to breathe, but no matter how much he gasped, it seemed unable to fulfill the lungs' hunger; he wanted to immediately divert his gaze, yet the muscles in his neck wouldn't respond to his command. In his mind, a long-forgotten legend surfaced.

Yet fear gripped him, mercilessly held him tight.

A shadow floated over, slowly moving from behind the vampire. Unlike a ghost, it had a more defined human shape, even retaining some gloomy hues. The previously tattered and mottled color blocks formed the shadow's "clothes," though the messy long hair disheveled in front covered its face.

The gaze of all the elves was drawn unbidden, yet none could raise their weapons. Instinctively they thought this creature impossible to defeat; it appeared so fragile yet immensely powerful. It was like a reflection of each elf, a collection of nightmares behind a mirror, in stark contrast to the elves.

"Die again! You monster!" the Elf Captain screamed as if mad, raising his bow. Bright red blood trickled down his neck from the corner of his lips. In moments of captivity by fear, only pain and madness could vent the oppression within, triumph over manipulated emotions. He needed to strike first before this creature caused more damage.

A gust of wind passed through the Elf Desolate Forest without warning; the brittle yellow leaves turned to ashes, and the ghost's long hair was blown apart.

No one could say clearly what they saw, but it was undoubtedly the scariest thing the elves could encounter. For the noble race with nearly infinite lives, nothing was more sorrowful than a fellow's demise. And as the hair was blown away, they seemingly confronted death itself.

Every elf saw something different, yet exactly the same. The ghost instantly transformed into the person dearest to them, perhaps parents; lovers; or the children they cherished. Then, time flashed, those faces aged, the Life Goddess no longer injected life's force into these beloved souls, and death suddenly befell them.

Then these faces twisted in agony, silent screams, and wails emerged under overwhelming hardship, each face belonging to their nearest and dearest. In an elf's imagination, every terrifying suffering, every misery, and misfortune vividly replayed on that face, piercing deep into every witnessing elf's soul.

This engulfing despair suddenly crushed the fighting spirit of the elves present. Their equipment felt unbearably heavy, and their legs seemed unable to move, as if filled with lead. Their eyes involuntarily shed salty, bitter tears, yet remained wide open, unable to look away from the ghost's face. A chilling breath enveloped the Elf Warriors' bodies, draining the last vestiges of fighting spirit from the gaps in their muscles.

The ghost revealed its true visage, a beautiful and handsome female face appeared on the slightly ethereal head. The faint smile at her lips seemed like the breath of spring, yet concealed a wintry sharpness.

As soon as the elves felt a slight relief, the real attack began. In an instant, the Banshee's face aged a century, becoming a decayed corpse's visage. Her hollow eyesockets were filled with boundless hatred towards the living, and from her gaping mouth came the death howl from the deepest parts of the Undead World.

The Banshee's wail.

The piercing sound burst briefly and faded, the small patch of forest returned to its grave-like silence. The Banshee continued forward, while the surrounding elves had become lifeless corpses. Their skin turned grey, akin to the color of a Ghoul. Whether golden hair or emerald green eyes, all was overcast with the same dreadful hue of death.

The Elf Captain's eyes turned blood red, his nostrils filled with the metallic scent, and his ears echoed only a buzzing noise. Now, every pore bled profusely, soaking his robes in red.

Still, he painfully raised his longbow, aiming at the gradually approaching Banshee.

The specially crafted arrow hit its mark as usual, preserving his record of never missing. The Banshee felt the pain, recognizing the substantial threat from this weapon; she cupped the Elf Captain's face, "staring" with her already desiccated eyes into the only living being's pupils.

Like the rapidly withering trees, the Elf Captain's last bit of life ebbed away swiftly. His skin seemed to be drawn dry of moisture, and black spots swiftly replaced the originally fair skin, spreading all over his body. The Elf Captain became akin to a mummy, with only a desiccated torso remaining, losing all traits of a living being.

The Banshee, absorbing from the Elf Captain, continuously repaired the damage within her body. Even the power of Holy Water had its limits, and the Banshee herself was far more powerful than ordinary ghosts. In the end, a single arrow was inadequate to vanquish this higher-tier Undead, and the defenseline guarded by this squad of Elf Warriors was breached by the Undead.

The Banshee discarded the elf in her hand, like discarding a bag of garbage. Though the fellow stubbornly clung to life, the ghosts and vampires behind the Banshee were the true fighting force. She concealed her presence, and the previously suppressed Undead legion charged forward again.